The Niceist Person On The Outside
The nicest person on the outside, the more demons there are on the Inside.
I have watched men smile with the tenderness of priests
while burying knives beneath your tongue.
Civilization is a well-tailored coat.
It buttons high against the throat
to hide the bite marks.
The kindest man in the room
is often wrestling wolves
no one else can hear.
He says, “please,”
he opens her door,
he remembers her anniversary, birthday,
he laughs softly at the correct moments—
all while somewhere below the small ribs
an ancient furnace consumes his sleep.
Do you think goodness is born clean?
I think not, No.
Goodness is usually forged
by a creature acquainted with its opposite.
The saint and the criminal
share the same cellar.
One merely learned
how to keep the lantern lit.
There are women
who smile like warm summer rain
because if they stop smiling
the whole house of memory catches fire.
There are men
who become gentle
only after discovering
how violent they could have been.
The world praises pleasant faces.
It rewards composure.
But the unconscious—
ah, the unconscious—
keeps its receipts.
Every swallowed hatred,
every forbidden desire,
every humiliation forced underground
returns at night
wearing the mask of dreams.
And so the very nicest people
often carry hell
with exquisite manners.
They apologize too quickly.
They forgive too much.
They tremble when alone.
Inside them lives a courtroom
where guilt never sleeps.
I do not distrust the darkness.
Darkness is honest.
It is the man
who claims he has none
who should concern you most.
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